Guilt
by DayStorm
Summary: The painful reality of that night is that there were no right answers. No miracle was going to sweep down from the sky and fix this. I made a terrible mistake. Aidan . . . Aidan made a choice . . . :/: Long-fic AU.
1. Chapter 1

_***It goes without saying that Being Human US – the story and all related characters – belong to the rightful owners. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled Being Human, based on the BBC series of the same name.***_

 **Chapter 1**

 **There Are No Such Things  
** **(Part 1)**

* * *

" _... even a monster can possess that most dominant of human emotion. Fear."_

– **Aidan Waite  
** Being Human US, S01E06

* * *

Every person I've ever met believes, to a varying extent, that everything happens for a reason.

Sometimes the reason is as simple as you were a dumbass and now you've got to pay. Other times the reasons go deeper, and you can feel in the soft grit of your marrow that there are other, greater powers at work.

Thinking back on that fateful night, I know now that I felt some of that.

To abuse another oft used expression, hindsight really was twenty-twenty. You can remember a moment and recognize the exact second that changed everything. See it so clearly; where your path diverged and the choices presented to you.

Take that well-lit road, safe, get home. Put on my pajamas and fall asleep to a movie. Go to work the next day, drink cold coffee and a sandwich for lunch. Live a life, never knowing the bullet I dodged. Never knowing how badly that evening could have ended.

Stay late. Lock up. Tired, take the short way home through a rain-glossed parking lot behind the bank. See a thing I had no business being a part of and suffer the consequences of that decision. I could have called a taxi. Could have waited for the last bus. Could have . . . could have . . . should have . . .

Didn't.

I have gone over that night, those final few minutes over-and-over again in my mind. Seeing myself through the memory, aware that I could so easily have chosen the other way and recognizing the futility of wishing for different.

My name is Ash Mallory.

I made a mistake.

* * *

"Oh, honey. You need to get laid!"

Now why did Jas have to go and say that?

Cheeks stinging with heat, I ducked my head down under the industrial sink. A wrench in my hand, heavy and warm. My friend and I were on the floor, behind the counter of a small bistro after hours. The lights were mostly off, because I didn't want anyone to think we were open.

It was late. Eleven at night. Eleven-thirty?

I wasn't sure; we'd been here a while.

Jasmine was holding the flashlight. Or she was supposed to be. Instead we were discussing my sex-life. Or the lack thereof.

"Ash?"

 _ **Tuck-tuck**_. She knocked the head of the flashlight on the floor.

"I heard you," I said. I turned onto my back, sliding my upper-half under the stainless steel sink and wiggled the heavy drainpipe. A low, angry gurgling came from it. "I am ignoring you. See this? This is me pretending you're not here."

Jasmine snickered and very deliberately moved the flashlight beam down, leaving me in the dark. "How's that working for you?"

"Not well," I muttered. Through the gurgling I thought I could hear a trickle of water, so at least the thing wasn't totally clogged. Water was getting through. I grabbed the wrench and felt with my fingers.

"Look, all I'm saying is if a relationship is too much work to squeeze into . . . work . . . god, babe, you need a life . . . than need I remind you that we live in the glorious age of electronics? I mean really, you're making all this harder than it needs to be."

I was grateful for the dark under the sink. I really was. It hid the fact that my face was on fire. Very slowly I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, praying for patience. Or for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. That'd work too.

What I said was, "Why do you care how often I _get-it-on_? As for the age of electronics, I _**really**_ don't want to get personal with something that comes with a warning label and batteries."

"I _**care**_ –"huge emphasis on the word "– because you, my friend, have given up."

Have not. I paused.

Frowned. Lowered my arm from where I was trying to pry the pipe open and glowered at Jas, sitting cross-legged in front of the sink. She was playing with the flashlight in her hands, sending the bright beam skidding here and there over the floor. "I didn't give up. I'm trying to run a business, so I'm – duh – busy. There's a difference."

"Mm-hmm." She sounded convinced. "What was wrong with Austin?"

"Bad breath."

I slid out from under the sink, tossing the heavy aluminum wrench on the floor.

Jasmine lifted blue eyes to mine. "Erik?"

"Enjoyed mining for nose gold," I said. "Especially over dinner."

"Jamie?"

Now here I just stared.

Jas threw up her hands. "Okay, so he had a bit of a gambling problem. But everybody needs a hobby."

I laughed. Jasmine Dalton had been my friend for longer than either of us could remember. Childhood. Toddler-hood. Baby-hood? Yes. Our parents were friends; our moms met at one of those birthing class seminars. But where Jas was the youngest of a brood of siblings – I was an only child.

And times like these, it really showed. She had no shame. Was embarrassed by nothing. Learned very early in life to speak her mind, and to speak it loudly, or risk never being heard.

She was pretty. Definitely no leftover genes there.

Honey blonde and eyes so blue that they didn't look real. Candy-blue. Turquoise. She was petite, coming in at an even five feet. She favored bold, jewel-colored clothes to match this radiant personality. She was like the sun.

Dark colors, soft colors, pastels. None of those worked for her, she was too big. Too bright. Silver bangle bracelets, or sometimes wood, sparkly beads and long rope chains. A dozen at once. Nothing in moderation.

I loved this girl. I really did. She was just so absolutely alive – unapologetically herself – that it was hard not to feel caught up in this energy. An aura of passion, a zest. A trend I'd noticed is that Jasmine tended to wear through friends pretty quickly.

Who has that sort of energy? Who could keep up with someone who exhausted them? Quick answer? She was worth it.

I mean, who else would drop everything to help a friend unclog a sink at midnight?

She waggled her brows. "Okay so maybe not a relationship, but there's something to be said for an itch-scratcher."

"So sayith the virgin," I muttered. "How 'bout we talk about _**your**_ sex life?"

Jas huffed, all indignant. "I'm saving myself because I want to save myself. No rule saying you have to be a prude, too."

"You're not a prude," I assured her, sweeping my long hair up in a tail. Picked up the wrench and dove back under the counter. Jasmine lifted the flashlight.

"Sure I am. And that works for me. Not for you, babe, you gotta break out of that shell before you adopt a cat to compensate for the absence of company and a crippling loneliness."

I actually lowered my arms to pin her with a look of sheer disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Jasmine offered a sunny smile, eyes twinkling. I gave the wrench one hard yank and the washer finally came loose, spraying damp and bad smell all over my upturned face. I coughed and sputtered, pushing out from under the sink.

Jas tilted her head, looking quizzically down at the drain pipe. "What's clogging that, anyway?"

"A scrunchy," I said.

"A scrunchy?"

"Yeah, you know. Puffy elastic for your hair."

Jasmine giggled. "How'd that get down there?"

"I don't know but someone's in big trouble." Ugh. I so didn't want to reach inside the pipe but I kinda had to. I was not going to call a plumber for _**this**_. The smell was awful. Very carefully, I stuck my fingers inside the pipe hanging open and felt around. Particles of soggy food slicked my skin and I made a face.

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

There! A wet, spongy thing. With the tips of my fingers, I hooked the elastic and tugged slowly upward. It came out relatively easily, considering it had felt like it was lodged in tight. But so did the particles of food and soggy and stagnant water.

Black sludge like poop tumbled out, splattering the floor.

"That's gross," Jas remarked, real helpful.

Yes it was.

I was not keeping the scrunchy. I flopped it over the top of the trash hidden under the counter and pulled myself off the floor. Grabbed a roll of paper towel and handed it to my friend.

"Here, make yourself useful."

She balked. "You do _**not**_ pay me for this."

I stuck my ucky hand on my hip and scrunched my face up to look annoyed. "I let you blather on about my sex life. _You. Owe. Me_."

She balked again. Slapped her hand over her chest and pretended to swoon, as if what I was asking her to do was just-too-much. She let her eyes roll up, showing the whites.

"Oh, grow up." I tossed the paper towel in her lap and Jasmine hooted with laughter. "I'm going to go wash my hands."

* * *

The night had grown cool, with just a hint of frost hanging over Boston.

The streets glossy and dark with a drizzle so fine it was more mist than actual rain. Beautiful and what I loved most about the city. The way the lights at night only seemed to enhance the darkness. Like a jewel. Glistening, polished glass.

My keys clinked as I stuck them in the door, locking the bistro with a quick twist. Jasmine waited while I did that. I was grateful for her company, that when I called she came right over. Not many people were so understanding about being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride?" Jas asked. Bundled up in her coat and thick wool scarf, arms crossed against the chill. Glowing faintly in the yellow shine from a streetlight.

I rattled the door to the restaurant, making sure it was locked tight. Peeked in through the front window, checking that everything inside was as it should be. Dark and empty. Yep.

"I'm sure," I said and blew out a tired breath. "I like the weather."

"So you're going to walk?"

A stiffer wind whistled down the street, cold cutting straight through my thin denim jacket and raising the little hairs on my arms. I shivered.

Jasmine rolled her eyes at me. "Okay, fine. Walk in the rain and get all wet. Just call me when you get in, 'kay?"

"I will," I promised her. Exchanged a quick hug with my friend. "Thank you for being here. I know you have . . . um . . ."

"Have what?" she teased, sticking her tongue out. "Class first thing? You owe me coffee and somethin' sweet, we'll call it even."

I laughed. "That's fair. Deal."

Jasmine waved her hands, shivering in the icy mist and flounced down the street to where she parked her car. I stood and watched her unlock the driver-side door, slide inside and start the engine. She waved again as she drove past, red break-lights flaring briefly before she turned a corner and was gone from sight.

I inhaled the clear, cool night and tucked my hands inside my jacket.

My shoes clipped on the shiny dark sidewalk; caked in wet leaves and the glitter of city lights.

This particular stretch of road was a hub of smaller consumerism during the day, both sides of the street lined with business and shops. Hallmark stores, florists and cafés. People meandering and music.

But once the sun began to set, the night seemed to settle like a shroud broken only by the turn of distant traffic lights. Nights here were lonely. Silent.

Isolated.

I flipped the lapels of my jacket up over my neck, huddling down into my coat. Those first, unwanted prickles of unease creeping like a chill over my skin. I should have accepted Jas' offer of a ride, but it was too late for that now.

Frost was forming on my eyelashes. I wasn't imagining it, it _**was**_ getting colder.

I didn't have far to go. Ten minutes to walk and I knew it would be toast warm once I got home. With the little space heater in my bedroom, clean pajamas and maybe a soothing tea before bed. Fall asleep to a book.

That sounded nice.

No, that sounded great.

The bank building loomed just ahead, showing I was already halfway there. This huge red-brick rectangle that towered over the surrounding businesses like a monolith. It's bright blue-and-white sign running down the length, radiant against the backdrop of roiling black clouds.

I sniffed and pulled my jacket more firmly closed, crossing my arms over my stomach.

Hesitated on the threshold of the bank, one foot on the slick grass bordering the bank's parking lot, the other still down on the sidewalk. I couldn't say exactly what stopped me in that moment. Why I paused, that knot of uneasiness coiling deep in my belly like foreboding.

I glanced back, over my shoulder.

Through a curtain of damp hair, my gaze swept the street. Bright-lit and open, as benign as could be with nothing to account for the nauseating lift in my stomach.

I kept moving, stepping over the grassy boarder onto black asphalt. Felt the brush of weightless rain on my face. My hand closed over the little can of repellent dangling from my keychain – as was my habit when cutting through the empty parking lot. Only this time I clutched the pepper spray a bit more firmly than necessary.

There were no words to explain what I was feeling. Paranoia. This prevailing sense that I was not as alone as it would seem. A streetlight flickered – that little hiccup in the yellow shine more sinister than was warranted.

I was already halfway across the parking lot when a scream jerked my head around. My shoes skidded on the asphalt, jaw clicking with fright. A hard, sharp bark of laughter rang out, trembling on the breeze.

 _Keep walking,_ flitted through my mind. _Just keep walking_.

I caught the shudder of a pained gasp, immediately choked off. The rough scrape of something heavy falling to the ground. My heart gave a solid double-tap, my whole body tingling as every nerve seemed to fire at once.

Fight or flight, I was frozen. Panic squeezed in my chest, forcing the air from my lungs while I just stood there. I listened hard, straining my senses to hear through the rush of wind in the ornamental trees greening the circumference of the parking lot.

I could smell my own rain-wet hair. The sudden silence more chilling than that initial shout. I slipped my phone from my jeans, dialing 911 with trembling fingers. Pressed the phone to the side of my face.

"Nine-One-One, what's your emergency?"

"Yes! I'd like to report a . . . a –"

A what? I _**knew**_ what I'd heard. What do I even say?

"Ma'am," the male dispatcher said calmly. "Do you need police or ambulance?"

"Police," I whispered. "Wait, no . . . both. Send both. Someone's being hurt. I-I'm reporting an aggravated assault."

A sharp crack, like a stick snapping, jerked my whole body around. The shout that followed sounded hoarse, and it echoed mockingly off the tall buildings almost as if it were coming down out of the sky.

I gave the address of the bank, explaining that I thought the screams were coming from the back lot where the employees parked their cars. Out of sight of the street.

"Are you witnessing this assault?" the dispatcher asked me.

"No, I . . . didn't go back there," I admitted, teeth grinding in frustration. An ominous silence descended, broken only by the honk of a car horn in the distance.

"A cruiser has been dispatched. Are you safe where you are?"

"Yes." No.

I was standing solidly in the open, under the shine from a streetlamp like a treasure in a game. The bank was closed, as late as it was. Its glass doors shining blue-green. Empty and clean and despite knowing exactly where to focus my unease . . . I still couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

I clutched my phone with both hands. "How long until the police arrive?"

"They're on their way now," the dispatcher responded.

I swallowed hard, hearing the evasiveness in his answer. Ten minutes? More? I said, "Thank you." and hung up.

It was never a conscious choice, but so few crossroads are.

I clutched my phone to my chest, shivering in this icy drizzle. Torn between a decision already made, and the whisper of something more.

I'm no hero. I wasn't brave. I called the police and that was as much as anyone could expect of me. That should have been enough. Whatever was happening just out of sight, so near that I could feel the tremor of malevolence like a physical touch . . . it wasn't my problem . . .

This was not . . . my problem . . .

I couldn't do it.

I couldn't keep walking and be okay with that.

* * *

I plastered myself to the wall of the bank building. The silence heavier than any quiet had the right to be. There were no shouts now, no evidence of life but for the rush of far distant traffic.

There was a whole city out there. People.

But here? I was alone.

My head so full of scents; wet concrete and grass, the sharper tang of metal from a chain-link fence sparkling under the hard shine of a streetlamp. The rain soaking into every crevice, every blade of grass. Through the tight fibers of my jean coat, so that the icy cold pressed right up against my skin.

I was in the dark now. At once a part of it, yet still somehow separate.

An interloper. I didn't belong here.

My heart a drumbeat in my chest. Pounding like it was trying to escape. The rush of blood tilting my vision. I already felt faint. Trembling on a wall, I squeezed my eyes shut hoping to hear the distinctive wail of police sirens but there nothing.

I sucked in a deep breath, shoring up my scattered courage and peeked around the corner –

– and froze.

I don't know what I thought I would find, but there were things I expected to see and then . . . there were things I did not.

A man knelt on the pavement, rain soaked into the dark denim of his jeans at the knees. Black hair plastered flat against a crystal pale face. On the ground in front of him were five glass bowled. His head bowed over them.

I couldn't tell if his eyes were open, but he was conscious.

The second man was a tall figure wrapped in an ash-gray overcoat that fell from narrow shoulders straight to his ankles.

Tall? Hell, there was one word to describe this person and that was _**'long'**_. Every part of him elongated, he looked like a sketch of a man drawn by an artist with no sense of proportion.

He had such a _**long**_ body; narrow and ramrod straight. Shoulders unbowed by the weight of his height. Long, long arms. Long hands in thick wool gloves, with stretched fingers. I didn't want to think it, but in my mind I saw an alien. Gray with those large, soulless black eyes.

I blinked, dispelling the image. He wasn't an alien.

He held in his hand a slim, curved slice of silver metal.

Cotton filled my mouth. Fear tasting like salt on my tongue. When I heard the shouting, I assumed there an assault. A man being beaten up, being murdered maybe. Something terrible but ordinary. _**This**_ was something else.

Gray Coat circled around the man still on his knees, that length of silver clasped in his fist. I swept at my hair, pushing the heavy strands out of my eyes.

He lay his hand over the man's forehead, five long fingers closing firmly in place. He tugged almost gently, the gesture so at odds with what he was doing. Drawing the head back. Exposing the length of a pale throat slick with rainwater.

The silver knife arched up, lethally beautiful.

"N-no, no! Stop!"

I came out from my hiding place; the questionable safety of being just around the side of the building – brandishing my pepper spray like a weapon. Holding it out in front of me with a fair amount of confidence. Gray Coat paused, his knife halting in its fatal downward sweep.

Fleetingly, it occurred to me that he might have thought I was holding a gun.

"I said don't move!"

 _I can't see his face,_ I thought numbly. The man . . . his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. I couldn't see past the edge, giving the impression that there was nothing behind it. Not even the glint of eyes.

"Put the knife down, and get away from him!" I shouted helplessly, my tiny can of pepper spray snug in the palm of my hand. "The police are on their way."

I said it hoping to scare him.

What I got was the knife pressed to that pale throat, the very tip indenting the skin. A bloom of blood seeping up. Gray Coat daring me to do something about it.

A voice drifted out from the folds of that floppy hat; soft as a whisper. Solid as the asphalt beneath my feet, " _Stray kitten without claws. Alone in dark places. What will she do, I wonder?_ "

He was laughing at me and the taunt couldn't have been any clearer. Helpless and alone in a very dark place, there was nothing I could do to stop him.

He dug his knife deeper into the man's throat. That bloom of blood spilling over, trailing slowly down the length of his neck.

There were still no sounds of sirens. Where were the police?

Dark eyes in a startling pale face, the man on his knees was watching me and it wasn't until just then that I even noticed. No passivity in his expression now, those eyes were focused and alert. A subtle lift around his shoulders. Muscles tightening.

He didn't seem to feel the pain of the knife cutting him; his gaze locked with mine and that fast I knew I'd made a terrible mistake.

The pepper spray slipped from my grasp, keys and the little metal canister clanking on wet asphalt. Dizzy from the force of the slamming in my chest, I would never clearly remember what happened next.

The dark-haired stranger came off the ground in a single, fluid sweep. The knife gouging a crimson line that bled almost not at all. Elbow slamming back into a body that suddenly wasn't there anymore.

I blinked and backed up, or thought I did . . .

I never saw it.

But I _**felt**_ it.

I felt those long fingers tear into my stomach; felt the shock of heat that wasn't quite pain – rather a sensation of something being terribly wrong . . . and then how all the strength just went out of me. I was still reeling when my body folded on itself.

My ankles first, then collapsing at the knees and waist and I was on the ground wondering how I got there . . .

. . . followed by horrified realization as I looked down and saw what was done to me.

I'd been eviscerated.

* * *

 **XxXxXx**

* * *

 **A/N -** I would like to thank _**missjanuarylily** _for making me the cover I'm using as my GUILT icon. Essentially the "Season 1" DVD cover for this fanfiction.

* * *

 **A note;** GUILT is an almost full AU, and so it deviates from the canon timeline from the get-go. As this story includes vamp-Kenny, and is post-vampire plague, I'd set the events as season 4 onward . . . but that's only to give you a general idea.

I've returned Josh to his seasons 1-2 persona, and erased the months he spent trapped as a wolf.

Ramona (of season 4) doesn't exist in this fanfiction.

Sally's magical ability, which she inherited from Donna, has been scaled back tremendously and even though I loved the Suzanna plot in S4, in my story, she drowned two hundred years ago and that's where her story ended.

Best,  
Day :)


	2. Chapter 2

_***It goes without saying that Being Human US – the story and all related characters – belong to the rightful owners. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled Being Human, based on the BBC series of the same name.***_

 **Chapter 2**

 **There Are No Such Things  
** **(Part 2)**

* * *

" _It's that shred of humanity that makes us  
_ _eventually crawl out from under the stairs  
_ _and show ourselves to you."_

– **Sally Malik  
** Being Human US, S01E07

* * *

Blood seeped from this terrible wound in my stomach, gumming between my fingers.

The pain was incredible but slow. I braced for it, feeling it creeping up as my body began to push through the shock of trauma and register what had happened.

I looked down and could not believe what I saw. My sweater shredded and the flesh beneath torn away. Through the blood, through a haze of disbelief, I understood that I was looking at my own insides.

Parts of me that had never before been exposed to the open air. Parts of me that should never see the light.

This couldn't be real. It was impossible. My stomach wasn't laid open; those weren't the bulge of my intestines. That wasn't . . . couldn't . . .

The tall man stood over me. Long, bony fingers clacking hollowly; he lifted them to his mouth and licked my blood from the ends.

I trembled with emotion too severe to be called fear; too cold for panic. My mind reeling – caught between what I knew was happening and what I couldn't imagine.

The dark-haired stranger prowled nearer, his eyes glossing black as night.

He bent to pluck the silver knife off the asphalt.

I watched him, enthralled by the way he moved. Fearless. A deadly swagger, his jacket shiny in the rain and the glow of a single lonely security bulb burning over the door of the bank building.

"It's over," he said, voice resonating in the silence. He spread his arms wide, light glinting off the razor-edge of the knife. "You know how this ends."

The tall man laughed. Low and menacing.

Arrogance flitted over the dark-haired stranger's expression; a cocky tilt to his sharp smile.

Not swagger, now, but pure provocation and I could see why. He was not alone . . .

Out of the darkness they came.

A dozen or more; spilling from the shadows, identical black eyes glinting in the rainy night and it was as if they'd been there the entire time. Surreal. All of this like a fevered dream, too vivid to be anything less than real.

They moved as one; a single unit closing on a target with the precision of guided missiles. Silent as the grave, with hardly a breath of sound passing between them.

My vision swam.

I swallowed thickly, tasting blood in my mouth.

We were surrounded and I was ignored; black eyes in pale faces, not one of them paid me the slightest attention. But _**I**_ was watching

Through the heave and pitch of dizziness in my head, the nausea thick in my throat . . . the fleeting warmth of blood seeping through my fingers . . . I was watching all this unfold.

From behind the dark-haired stranger, a teenager sauntered forward.

He was different from the rest. Not only younger but far less anonymous in a green novelty t-shirt and sneakers. Hair plastered flat around his ears.

At first glance, he had no place here. He looked like he should have been rushing home, having missed curfew and in my delirious haze I almost shouted a warning . . .

. . . he was one of them.

It was subtle but unmistakable; the way his gaze swept the parking lot, a precise focus in those soft brown eyes. Mirroring the same careless lethality that had torn open my belly and left me lying boneless on the ground.

"We need it alive," he said, voice carrying easily across the deathly silent parking lot.

The arrogance never left the dark-haired stranger's face. "I know."

I turned my face away, despair smoldering like a coal in my chest with the realization that I'd made a terrible mistake.

There was the man I'd tried to save, thrumming with dark power and the glint of the silver knife in his hand. Cool fury tightening around his inhuman eyes.

"You need help?" the teenager asked, quietly.

The dark-haired man slipped into a tighter smile, lips drawn to reveal sharp white teeth.

"I got this."

A _**crack!**_ as a boot came down on one of the bowls still on the ground. Glass splintered into a million needle-sharp shards.

The man in the gray coat pulled his fingers from under the folds of his hat. A low, guttural sound drawn out with them.

The crowd stirred. A sea of black eyes glistening dangerously.

They were here for him. He had to know that but rather than withdraw, or face them, the tall man knelt down beside me. His elongated body seeming to fold on itself, and my heart leapt at his nearness. A smell like vinegar wafting from his heavy gray overcoat.

My fingers skidded over rough asphalt, feeling blindly for the keys I knew were there. So scared I could hardly breathe through the slam of my pulse in my throat. Paranoia, skin twitching in anticipation. He would see. He would . . . would . . .

I felt eyes on me.

Out of all of them, I'd drawn _**his**_ attention.

My gaze met his from across the length of the parking lot, rainwater and blood loss blurring the edges and though the dark-haired stranger didn't make a sound to give me away, I sensed his hesitation.

Yellow light slid off the rain-wet metal of my keys. My bloody hand closed over them, fumbling for the small canister of pepper spray on the chain.

A shadow of a smile flitted over Dark-hair's expression.

Fear and doubt collided, a maelstrom of emotion. I wanted to live . . . the seize of panic that gripped me no more complicated than that one, simple truth. I never felt anything as strong as what I felt in that moment, my life roaring inside of me. A scream that made no sound.

The tall man touched me, his hands grotesquely warm.

I jerked my arm up; shoving that tiny metal can under the folds of his hat and pressed down on the release with all my strength.

My shredded stomach flamed with pain as something on the inside tore.

The bottle in my hands hissed, a liquid mist sprayed out in a cloud of particles.

The tall man threw back his head, gloved hands going up to hold his hat in place while scrambling out of reach of the noxious mist.

The dark-haired stranger struck.

Fast as the crack of a whip, he launched himself clear across the parking lot. A blur of black leather and crystal pale skin.

I tried to move out of the way, but the last of my strength had gone out of me. Eyes slamming shut, I braced myself.

Dark-hair didn't land on me.

Boots thumped the ground inches from my body, close enough so that he'd had to twist in midair. Both hands catching on the Tall Man's shoulders, driving the creature another step back.

He drove his fist solidly into the folds of the hat where a face would be. Knuckles crackling on flesh with a satisfying crunch; the man in the gray coat crumpled in a bewildering heap, his body distorting under the bulk of his overcoat.

The throbbing in my stomach like liquid metal poured into my wound.

 _ **White**_ hot. _**Searing**_ pain.

I wanted to cry, but couldn't pull in enough air to make a sound.

Through the trauma of being split open, I hadn't actually felt the severity of mortal injury. I knew it was t here, saw it with my own eyes, and could understand what was happening. But until now the pain had been so far away.

As if my body was just so damaged, it didn't quite know what signals to send my brain. So the ache just sat there.

Roiling, boiling heat growing steadily hotter but never . . . quite . . . reaching me.

Trembling hands slid to cover the gaping wound in my midsection, as if that would make any sort of difference.

 _ **Thwack!**_

A body careened into mine; dark-hair torn off the man in the gray coat and flung ruthlessly down.

"Ai . . . da . . .n!"

There was a roaring in my ears and I think I might have passed out at that point.

Not for very long, the violent jostling too much for my broken body, it was only a quick fade out and back. My hands were pressed to dark-hair's shoulders, muscle tight under slick black leather.

He pulled himself up.

Our eyes met.

For just an instant, this frozen second where I stared into eyes that were black as the rain-glossed asphalt – the whole world seemed to quiet around us. A moment of calm in the midst of a nightmare.

The man in the gray coat hooked sharp fingers in the back of his leather jacket.

Dark-hair came off the ground; his entire body heaved up and thrown. He struck the side of the bank building with an audible thump and slid, senseless, to the grass.

The teenager responded faster than any of us, shouting "Go! Go! Go!" while Gray Coat paused, watching with interest as dark-hair staggered.

Dazed, but trying to get up.

The others surged forward, the teen's voice carrying over the sudden cacophony of noise. He was issuing commands: "Close around the building. Don't let it get away; watch the flank! Aidan, you okay?"

They were all so fast. My head spun, dizziness like a weight pressing me into the ground.

The hoard closing like a first around him, the tall man turned in my direction. Face hidden beneath the folds of that shapeless gray hat, it should have been impossible for me to tell what expression he wore . . . and yet I knew. I knew.

 _I'm coming back for you_.

Air left my lungs in a whoosh that scalded my throat.

A seething mass of flesh and fangs, of violence descended on the man in the long gray coat. He stood tall, unafraid, not waiting for them so much as coolly unconcerned. _**They**_ didn't matter.

Cool trembled beneath my skin.

I peeled my hand off my stomach, the numbing spreading all through my body. Through a blur of exhaustion, I saw the first of them reach him. Too many bodies, their forms seemed to melt into each other so that I couldn't focus on what was happening.

Blur of black, a splash of red and claws raking down.

I closed my eyes, and it felt like only a second passed but when I opened them again . . . I was fading in and out of consciousness. Maybe just fading.

With the most dramatic sweep of his coat, the tall man tore straight through the bodies in his way. The mob responded exactly as one would expect – with angry shouts and yowls, these wild cries, and gave chase as Gray Coat launched into the shifting darkness beyond.

The teenager sprinted after them, brown hair slicked back out of his eyes.

But where the others never even paused, he did.

Attention landing first on me, brow furrowing, then swinging around to the man still on the ground. Wrestling with indecision.

Follow his people, or stay.

The dark-haired stranger pulled himself up off the grass, lithe as a panther. He swept at the blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

"Go on," he rasped.

The teen didn't move. "You sure?"

Those piercing black eyes never wavered.

"I'm sure."

* * *

Lying in the rain, shivering and twitching convulsively.

Never in my life had I felt this alone. It seemed perversely right, that I would experience loneliness this profound at the moment of my death.

It didn't feel quite real.

Death came for me in the silence of a windswept parking lot. Faint lights catching in his hair, the rain-slick leather of his jacket. Predatorily beautiful, no less terrifying.

Absent the dark resonance of before, he asked me, "Do you know what I am?"

Tears I'd tried so hard to hold inside spilled over, trailing hot from the corners of my eyes. So full of regret, of pain.

"Do you?"

Distant thunder roared, followed by a whip of forked lightning. Eerily quiet.

His boots scuffed the asphalt as he drew nearer.

" _V-vampire_ ," I managed, through a full-body tremor.

I knew.

Had known almost from the moment he swung up off the ground, brown eyes glossing inhuman black.

I swallowed into the silence, tasting the rain on my lips. Tasting blood.

"I w-won't tell."

"No, you really won't."

That could so easily have been a threat, menacing and monstrous but we both knew I wouldn't survive tonight. A simple statement of fact . . . who would I tell?

One hot tear trailed from the corner of my eye, melting into the rainwater that coated every inch of me. Invisible.

"I-I need a-an –" I licked my lips, swallowing hard. Tried again. "I-I need an ambulance."

He shoved a rough hand through his hair, spiking the wet strands. "An ambulance. You think that'd make a difference?"

"P-please," I breathed.

Emotion flitted over his expression, the hard line of his jaw tightening. Pain in his eyes that might have mirrored my own, indecision, but also something darker. Dangerous.

Crimson seeped through my fingers. The weight of my pulse, and the alarming flutter behind my heart.

"Are you going to k-kill me?"

Black eyes met mine.

 _I don't know . . ._

The wind moaned, a stiffer breeze that swayed the trees. The paper rustle of dying leaves turning over, and the clack of branches. It felt good – cool, crisp, soothing some of the feverish heat under my skin. Some of the nausea.

His nostrils flared, and as far gone as I was already, I didn't fail to understand the significance of that sharp inhale. _Vampire_. The scent of blood, of _**my**_ blood seeping through my fingers, rousing a hunger in him I couldn't imagine.

I was caught in this terrible in-between; tore between wanting it to be over, and the sheer terror of the unknown.

The horror of waiting to die the worst thing in the world.

 _Who was right,_ I wondered numbly.

Would there be peace, once my heart gave that finale heavy _thump_ and I fell into death, or nothing at all? Did the good in me outweigh the sins, or did it not matter?

Oh, god, I wanted to live.

With every fiber of my being, every shred of consciousness I clung to whatever life was left in me and drowning hands reached for any shore . . .

"I wasn't l-lying," I managed, struggling to breathe through the tightness in my chest. "I d-did call them . . . what I told him. _**Him**_. I c-called the police. T-they're coming."

A bright burst of desperate hope, immediately stolen away by a pitying, "No one's coming for you," he blew out a quiet breath. "We're alone out here."

If I thought that compassion would slow anything, I was wrong. The wind swept through the trees and straight over my broken body. It smelled like the rain, wet concrete. Grass and autumn in the city.

The dark-haired vampire breathed deeply, eyes slamming shut and turned his face to the sky.

"You don't h-have to kill me."

Drizzle on his jacket, the shine of yellow light slicking off the black leather. His nearness, a palpable presence. If I were _**blind**_ , I would know he was there.

He didn't say a word, only swallowed, once. Jaw clenched tight. Face tilted up, at the roiling dark clouds.

I shivered in the cold.

Could do nothing but wait for a decision already made, counting the seconds with every limited beat of my heart. Would forever remember the look on his face, the exact second he surrendered to this need.

Despairing acceptance.

The vampire dropped to his knees beside me, dark denim and black leather.

Sharp teeth and midnight eyes, piercing black. He slid one hand down under my shoulders, and with infinite gentleness lifted my upper body off the ground.

I met his gaze, holding that glossy black stare through a blur of hot tears. "I don't want to die."

Cool fingers on my chin, he turned my face into his shoulder.

Exposing the length of my throat, skin drawn taut over the pulsing vein.

"I was trying to help you!"

"Shh. Shh. I know," he said, quiet. "Close your eyes."

I didn't. My vision swallowed by his jacket and the smell of leather and blood, the tang of my own fear burning like acid.

He lowered his face to my throat, the flesh there wincing from the press of fangs like knives.

My whole body ached with denial.

A silent, voiceless scream.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **There Goes the Neighborhood  
** **(Part 1)**

* * *

" _... when you're something other, a monster,  
_ _the consequences are worse. Much worse.  
_ _You wake up from your nightmares. We don't."_

– **Aidan Waite  
** Being Human US, S01E01

* * *

Fear.

I remembered the fear.

This dark burst of pain and the hard smell of blood. Cool hands cradling my body, inhuman strength holding me still. Already too weak to resist, I couldn't have . . .

He sank his teeth into my throat, white fangs as sharp as knives and I fixed my gaze on the yellow security light hissing over our heads. Watched the drizzle come down cold, while blood seeped through my fingers.

Through my neck or my stomach, I was going to die and I think I gave myself over to him in that moment. Better this death. I didn't want to lie there in the rain and the dark, all alone. Counting the seconds. Afraid.

Let him take me.

Let it be over.

Let it be . . .

I lifted tired eyes from the savaged piece of bloody plastic in my hands. This foreign taste rich as cream, decadent as chocolate full in my mouth. Silence in my chest.

My killer sat across from me. Elbows braced on his knees, dark jacket thrown over the back of his chair. He'd been there from the moment I opened my eyes, a strangled breath catching in my throat and this rush of new life like fire in my veins.

His hair was dry, clothes clean and not what he'd worn that night.

Sunlight filtered through a dusty window, pale and cold.

"Say something."

What could I say in a moment like this, where nothing felt quite real? I drew a careful breath, the inside of my nose sizzling with the rawness of my senses.

"What's your name?"

Surprise rippled over his expression, there and gone. He hadn't expected those to be my first words. I could not _**believe**_ that was all I could think to say.

"Aidan," he said. "I'm Aidan."

"What did you do to me?"

"I think you know."

My fingers closed convulsively on the shredded plastic, and the smell that wafted from it made my toes curl. Succulent. Mouthwatering scent. I locked my jaw as my stomach pitched and rolled with a nausea so severe it was followed by a tilting dizziness.

These . . . these were hunger pangs . . .

Again, I remembered the inky shine of his inhuman eyes. That deep, deep bite.

"Vampire," I managed, the admission so much like a surrender that it made my chest ache. "You did this?"

Aidan said nothing. He was watching me with penetrating intensity, gauging my response. Tension in his stillness and I understood that if I panicked, tried to run, he was ready to grab me. I would be stopped.

I squeezed my eyes shut; rejecting the terrible reality.

Impossible to ignore the taste coating the inside of my mouth. Stickiness on my chin, on my lips. The thick plastic of a hospital blood bag, shredded into strips in my hands while crimson dripped from the ends of my fingers.

The overwhelming desire to stick those bloody fingers in my mouth and lick them clean.

"W-why?" I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, rubbing through the thin fabric of my shirt. Searching for a pulse that just wasn't there. "Why would you do this?"

Dark eyes leveled on mine, "You were dying. In an OR, with a team of surgeons, maybe . . . no one was coming."

Echoes of that night seemed to weigh on him, as heavily as they did for me, and for just a second I thought I smell traces of the rain.

"I was trying to help you."

 _Shh. Shh. I know. Close your eyes._

"Would you believe, so was I?"

The penetrating sting of his teeth.

My hand slid from my chest to my throat, probing gently. There were no punctures, no wounds. No need to search, I knew exactly where I'd been bitten. Could still feel – phantom sensation – but I could still feel his bite.

Aidan watched me, not making a sound to intrude and I caught a glint of sympathy, quickly shadowed by something harder.

A flintiness that offered no apology.

My body _**burned**_.

The bag was back at my mouth, pain scalding my throat.

Crimson slicked the inside; dredges of what I hadn't sucked out already. It wasn't very much but the taste! This flavor filling my head with a delirious haze, euphoric. It soothed the fire that seared under my skin, and as the pain receded so did the delirium.

It was the wildest sensation of being me and something else entirely, at the same time.

I was horrified by what I was doing. My mind caught between a very-human disgust (I was drinking blood. Not stage-blood, not thick coffee. _**Blood**_ ) and the overpowering urge to feed. I trembled from wanting more. Wanting all of it; to drink and drink until I burst.

Ripping the plastic from my mouth, I threw it to the floor.

"What's wrong with me?!"

"Nothing," Aidan said without a trace of disgust or censure in his voice. "Your body runs on blood and its demanding you replace what you lost. You're fine."

"Whose fault is that? _**You**_ bit me."

I don't know what possessed me to say that, but it succeeded in coaxing a tentative smile out of him. Aidan rose from his chair; a silent, pale shadow. He turned away and I looked around.

For the first time since opening my eyes, I noticed that it was actually fairly dark down here. We were in a basement.

A bare bulb screwed into the ceiling, unlit, and the watery shine coming in through high windows did nothing to light the dank space. And yet I could see everything with stunning clarity. Unhampered by the thick shadows between boxes and furniture.

I sat on the edge of a mattress, on the bed where I'd . . . risen.

A bar fridge sat solidly on a chipped dresser, pressed right up the basement wall.

Aidan was at the fridge, and the light that spilled out when he opened the door needled in my eyes. Too bright. Too white.

I winced away, eyes slamming shut at the glare.

A second after that, this luscious smell wafted right under my nose.

I pried one lid open, despairing at the sight that greeted me. There was a fresh bag of blood, slick plastic tight and bulging with the liquid inside.

"You need to feed," Aidan insisted.

He was right. That was the hardest part. He wasn't lying to me and oh, it would have been so much easier if I could pretend that he was.

My tongue snaked out, licking at the stains on my lips. The blood sweet, rich, spiced.

"You have to."

I shook my head, no.

A quick, unconvincing jerk.

Aidan knelt in front of me, taking my sticky hands in both of his and set the bagged blood gently in my grasp. The hospital sticker very white next to the liquid inside.

"It gets easier." He curled my fingers around the bulging plastic. "You need to drink."

Temptation. The blood would stop the pain . . .

The surrender a relief. Every cell in my body seemed to catch fire, my flesh flaking to peel off the bone. It _**hurt**_.

I wanted to tear through the plastic and gorge myself sick on what was inside; that first mouthful of blood a balm to soothe that terrible roaring inside me. My jaw flexed and I felt the smooth, sharp slide of new fangs in my mouth.

 _Give in,_ whispered my hunger. _Just this once. Give in._

My lips parted.

I didn't drop the blood. I _**threw it**_ to the floor, tossed it away from me where it landed with a heavy slap.

Aidan rocked back on his heels, leaning away from the splash as a corner burst and dark liquid oozed up out of the plastic. The intoxicating scent filled the room; triggering my hunger so powerfully that I nearly doubled over.

To my surprise, his response was just as immediate.

Aidan's eyes glossed dangerous black, attention zeroing on the burst blood bag.

A split-second distraction, but it was enough. Enough for me to recognize what might be my one chance. My only chance.

I came off the bed with surprising strength, slamming both hands into Aidan's chest and he staggered. One hand splayed flat on the floor.

The way out was a narrow set of stairs that led to the ground floor. No weakness in my body despite the fact that I'd just risen from the dead. I felt strong. I felt _**fast**_ as I sprinted for those stairs.

If my heart were beating, it would have been racing. Pounding panic in my head.

One step. Two. Thr–

– cool hands closed over my arms.

I swung around, propelled by my own momentum into the concrete wall. A sound that was probably a growl tore up my throat, frustration boiling hotter in that second than my own unfulfilled bloodlust.

Aidan caught my hands when I went to hit him, pinning my fists to his chest. Locking me between the wall and his body.

"No. Shh. None of that."

None of what? I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage at the injustice. Terror at what I was, what he was asking me to do. I wanted to demand he take it back. Please, just take it back.

Aidan held me.

"It's okay. You're going to be okay."

The calm in his voice loosened the clutch of desperate panic that had a hold of me.

He met the chaos with stillness, and with nothing to feed off of, the rage dissolved. I curled my fingers into the cool cotton of his shirt, sobbing weakly into the backs of my own hands.

"I made the choice," he bit out, each word coming in a rush that seemed to scald in his mouth. Hard, harsh and hurting him. "I couldn't save your life, couldn't fix what was done to you but there was another way."

 _Couldn't save your life . . . your life . . ._

 _. . . there was another way._

A blur of cold tears clouded my too-sharp vision.

The memory of my death, and those last few minutes. I remembered the way he'd looked at me; despairing acceptance, black eyes flashing regret. An apology in the harsh lines of his face.

I'd watched his resolve break, sympathy swept aside by a pitiless hunger.

Recognized the exact second he surrendered to it.

It was the same lust that roared and clawed at the underside of my skin now. Insatiable thirst. A hunger devoid of humanity, compassion, sense. He dropped down beside me, knowing what he intended to do and hating himself.

On the heels of that thought, fresh horror.

"Oh my god," I breathed. "You did this, you brought me back to make up for feeding off me?"

He made no attempt to deny it. The truth there in his eyes.

Brown now, not black like they'd been, and so full of words. Things he wanted to say, things that needed to be said. His every thought playing over his expression; one melting into the next and each coming back to that same cold finality.

 _It's done._

Too late for regret, there was no taking it back.

Was I shaking? No, not anymore.

I wasn't moving much at all. Clinging to Aidan's shirt, tugging lightly on the fabric, dragging the collar down a bit. My breaths were shallow, scarcely a whisper on the backs of my hands.

"You weren't a mistake," he said quietly, his breath fanning in my hair. "Whatever the circumstances, wherever we go from here I'll get you through this. Believe that. You'll be okay."

I swallowed the ache in my throat, forcing back the sting of fresh tears.

Aidan released my wrists. I let go of his shirt and fell, defeated, against the wall at my back. Not tired so much as drained. Everything hurt.

My senses sizzling with newness of it all.

Every breath scalded my nostrils. Retinas burning from the clarity of my vision; to where even the shadows weren't quite dim enough for my sensitive eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling them continue to water behind their lids.

"Aidan?"

I felt him move, heard the brush of cloth on skin. Resisted the urge to peek.

"What did you mean, when you said no one was coming?"

Silence. The metallic _**ting-ting-ting**_ of air trapped in the pipes rang deafeningly in that loaded moment of relative stillness. Out of everything he'd said already, it seemed strange that this would make him pause.

"We'd warned them," he said evenly. "The police knew what was happening, knew to ignore calls to the area. Phone calls like yours. Nobody was coming to help."

I pried one eye open. "You _**own**_ the police?"

"Not me, but yes."

Aidan ducked to pick the discarded bag of blood off the floor, sweet liquid spilling from the popped plastic.

The blood-scent overpowering the harsh stop of other smells clogging my sinuses, tension knotting between my eyes like a headache. Thirst searing the back of my throat, I was tempted to drop to my knees to lick the blood off the floor.

I turned my face away. Shamed and embarrassed at the thought, but I don't think it was supposed to be comfortable or right. My body _**screamed**_ for blood; a hunger that was monstrous, inhuman, and pure temptation.

Everything hurt . . .but it didn't have to . . .

Relief, an end to the pain was right there. Held out and mine to take.

I wanted to resist.

Later I would wish I was strong enough to endure, to refuse, but as my already clear vision sharpened to crystal clarity . . . I knew that my eyes had glossed vampire black.

Aidan showed no surprise, no distaste at the change in me.

I took the blood he offered with trembling hands, cold liquid spilling through my fingers. The tear in the bag wider than it'd seemed. The smell was just incredible; the taste still tingling on my tongue.

"Ash."

"What?"

"My name," I told him. "Call me Ash."

Tears spilling over, I closed my mouth over the rip in the plastic and drank deeply.


	4. Chapter 4

_***It goes without saying that Being Human US – the story and all related characters – belong to their rightful owners. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled Being Human, based on the BBC series of the same name.***_

 **Chapter 4**

 **There Goes the Neighborhood  
** **(Part 2)**

* * *

" _Change doesn't care if you love it or you hate it;_ _it's indifferent. Intractable._ _And it will not be denied."_

– **Aidan Waite  
** Being Human US, S01E11

* * *

I watched the water run red around my bare feet; the spray from the shower as hot as I could stand it, and traced a finger lightly over the shadow of veins in my wrist.

Blue veins. No different than how they'd looked before.

No pulse at my throat. No beat in my chest.

I raked hard fingers over my naked stomach, the flesh there smooth. Firm.

There were no scars, no evidence of trauma. Only old, caked blood slicking off under a torrent of scalding hot water and even that would be gone in a minute.

There would be nothing to show for the horror of that night . . .

. . . I died.

My forehead thumped on stained tiles, the scents of mildew and rotten wood clogging my sinuses. I could see, hear, smell with incredible sensitivity – the world around me so much more alive than I had ever known.

I curled my fingers into fists, clinging futilely to the wall and wondered how the hell it'd come to this.

I was dead, but not.

Alive . . . but not . . .

Vampire.

I was a vampire, and I did not _**believe**_ in vampires.

Gave a whole new meaning to the words _'identity crisis'_.

Standing there in the too-hot shower, with steam peeling the scent of blood off my skin – it still didn't feel quite real. My mind wanted to rebel.

How long had it been, since that night in the parking lot?

A day? Longer.

I'd had no perception of time between my death, to waking downstairs with a screaming hunger for human blood. It had to be more than a day . . .

Was I missing? People would be looking for me, worried about me.

Jasmine. Oh, god. Jas! I promised to call her when I got home safe. What would I say to her? What _**could**_ I say? Like a fist closing, I felt the grip of renewed panic. My chest trembled on a swallowed sob and it took everything I had to pull off that wall.

I fixed on a mesh shower caddy hanging from the neck of the showerhead.

The sheer domestic normality of it struck a chord; a violent yank back, almost, and it grounded me in a way I'm not sure much else could have in that moment, where I teetered on the edge of falling apart. I was in a bathroom, in a house in Boston.

Not a dungeon. Not a crypt.

Not locked in a catacomb, having risen from a coffin atop a bed of soil from my homeland.

A _**bathroom**_.

I was standing in a tub, staring at a cheap dollar-store caddy almost identical to the one hanging in my own shower. The mesh stretching under the weight of its contents; two bottles of shampoo, one body wash and a bar of white soap slowly dissolving in the steam.

All so painfully normal.

I reached for one of the shampoos and used my thumb to pop the top. Did it concern me, that the scent of something deliberately perfumed would blow out my already stressed olfactory sense?

Yes.

Did I do it anyway?

Also yes . . .

Store brand, cheap shampoo. Citrusy and sweet, the scent hit me straight between the eyes and I dropped the bottle, feeling it slap my feet and skid to the back of the tub while I clapped both wet hands over my nose.

Rubbing hard to dispel the stinging in my sinuses.

That . . . that . . .

. . . that was my own fault.

As much as I would have loved to leave it there, reeking, I didn't. Bending at the knees, careful not to slip, I retrieved the bottle. Snapped the top shut and returned it to its spot.

The other bottle was dark gray with ribbed sides, and the words _**Arctic Ice**_ slashed dramatically across the label. I touched it, trailing the pad of my thumb over the soft plastic.

I caught the sparkle of moisture like crusted diamond, so different than what it would have looked like to my human eyes. Breathtakingly beautiful. How had I never noticed before, the way the light seemed to catch in the very centre of each dewy droplet? Smoldering like the core of a star.

I crushed a sparkling crystal under my thumb.

Despair coiled tight in my chest, this horrible weight, and the emotion filled my mouth with a taste like salt. I snatched the dark gray shampoo from the mesh and inhaled – half-expecting to actually pass out from this one. Maybe hoping that I would.

To my surprise, the smell was fairly mild. A crisp, refreshing winter mint.

The scent triggered a prickle of recognition. Familiar and for just a second, I couldn't place it. Then I did and it came to me in a surge of memory.

The sting of teeth. Aidan's dark head bent to my neck. The smell of wet leather, his rain-wet hair and faintly – _faintly_ – traces of this exact scent.

Those last few seconds, with the darkness closing in, I'd focused on that smell. Used it to shut out the taste of blood in my mouth, my terror as the weight in my chest became a crushing pressure and I knew he was killing me. My heart beating so fast at first, then slowing. Slower. Laboring . . .

I held onto that smell right until the very end.

If I'd had the wherewithal to think of it at all, I would have assumed it was hair gel melting in the rain. _**Shampoo**_ is what eased me into the cold, black embrace of death.

What a ridiculous, anticlimactic thing to become suddenly aware of.

I set the bottle back in its place, careful not to slam it down and rip the mesh off the wall. My hands were shaking.

The only soap that didn't sizzle the inside of my nose, of course it was _**his**_.

I turned my face up under the shower spray, letting the water wash the salt of tears from my skin.

There were no tears, anymore. I'd done my crying, my raging, my silent bargaining and had nothing to show for it but a hollowness inside.

What a waste of perfectly good emoting.

* * *

The interesting thing about dreams is that when you're dreaming, you don't know you're asleep.

But when you're awake . . . you _**know**_. There's no doubt, no question. I never understood why in movies the characters would default to _'I must be dreaming'_ when impossible things happen.

Impossible things were happening to me.

I wasn't dreaming.

My bare toes curled on the damp tile floor, nicely warmed from the temperature of the steam filling the bathroom. I wrapped myself in a towel, careful to tuck the ends securely under my arms with trembling fingers.

My new hunger; like that first thrill of heat when you catch a fever.

I thought I should have been sweating, but I wasn't. Belly full of blood, nothing but liquid sloshing around in there and I was still so hungry. It made me sick. Blood. Red, cold, from the little fridge in the basement. _**Blood**_.

I swept my hand over the bathroom mirror, wiping thick condensation from the glass. I let my hand fall before I could plaster both palms over the glass to hide the face that would be reflected back at me. What was I expecting?

A hardness, maybe. This coldness that hadn't been there before; something predatory and utterly inhuman. Dead. Undead. I was a monster that fed off the blood of the living . . .

What I saw were familiar brown eyes in an oval face. Small, straight nose and a fall of thick, dark hair that swept past my shoulders. Water beaded on naked skin, pooling at the indentation where my collarbone met at my throat.

I pressed my palm there, trailing fingers up the length of the artery that stretched just beneath the surface. Not even a bruise to show where I'd been bitten.

The face was mine. That nose, those lips, the smooth curve of my cheek.

My fingers tightened on the edge of the sink basin, making the whole thing groan in protest. Pipes rattled behind the wall. My forehead _**thunked**_ on the mirror, bloodlust roaring through my veins and a cloying bitterness rose like denial in my throat.

I watched with despairing acceptance –

– my eyes blacken like ink.

* * *

Aidan was waiting for me at the top of the stairs when I came out.

He sat with his back to the wall, one leg hiked up and a long arm resting lightly off the knee. He wore dark jeans, a navy top that complimented the striking black of his hair and how a non-beating heart could feel like it leapt into my throat, I don't know.

There was nowhere to hide.

I padded silently down the narrow upstairs hall, rough wood and peeling wallpaper giving the unsettling impression that the walls were melting around us.

"Did you think I'd try and run?"

Aidan's slow smile stretched higher on one side. He had a nice smile, I noticed, even if it didn't quite reach his eyes.

I sat down across from him at the top of the landing and folded my legs sideways. Settling my weight as comfortably as I could on paper-thin carpet and the solid floor.

Part of the reason I did this was to show that I didn't intend to try and break past him.

The other –

"You bit me."

"I did."

"You drank my blood."

"I did that, too."

No apology. No justification, only the memory of his reasoning still ringing in my ears and a flintiness that needed no translation. _It's done_.

"And then you brought my body home with you. That's . . . fairly morbid, Aidan."

He blinked.

It was no great stretch to imagine he'd been braced for accusation, for anger. Fear. Tears. I don't know if he thought he deserved it, but it hadn't escaped my notice that some of the tension eased from his shoulders the second I sat down.

"Ghosts were my monster growing up," I went on. "Our house wasn't haunted. It was more the idea of ghosts that would keep me up at night. Dead people I can't see, standing over my bed watching me while I sleep."

Aidan's weary smile eased into a smirk.

"You're afraid of ghosts?"

"Was. I _**was**_ afraid of ghosts, although I'm starting to think I may have pulled the blankets up over my head for the wrong beastie. My heart isn't beating."

"No," – so final "and it never will again."

"So that's it. I'm just dead?"

"Define _'dead'_ ," Aidan countered with a burst of wry humor. He shoved a rough hand through his hair, spiking the strands just as he had that night. "Look, I don't want you to think that your life is over because it's not. What you are now, what _**I**_ made you – it's a darker way of life, but a stronger one. You'll never be sick –"

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"– you'll never be weak. Grow old."

Die.

He let that hang.

"Is this the part where you tell me it gets easier?"

"No," dark eyes slid to my face with sobering intensity "it really doesn't. With time you learn to live with what you are; but the blood? That crave you're feeling like a hum under your skin, this thirst burning the back of your throat? That never goes away."

I believed him. I'd showered, and rinsed my mouth out with water from the tap but I could still taste the blood coating the inside of my mouth. Could still feel the thrill of feeding, of a need being sated.

"How did this happen, Aidan?"

The words slipped out before I could stop them, brittle in my mouth and I would have taken them back if I could. Aidan watched me, a flurry of emotion behind that unyielding resolve. I didn't expect what he said next.

"Truth is you're here now because a vampire took pity, where he should have shown you mercy."

Mercy. To let me die, to let me bleed out in the rain in the dark. That would have been the mercy. I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, aware of what hadn't been there before. Nerves. No, not nerves. _**Tendon**_.

They were tight, elastic, and if I flexed them my new fangs would slid down like a cat unsheathing its claws. Hard, sharp bone tucked discretely up in my gums. I ran my tongue over my teeth, searching for those points.

I squeezed my eyes closed, battling a fresh surge of memory.

Blood spilling from the corners of my mouth while I gulped and sawed at the plastic bags being passed to me. Helpless to resist the sensations that swelled and crested with each greedy swallow. The euphoria that came after.

 _A vampire took pity._

Breathe. Just breathe –

Aidan knocked my knee and was on his feet all in one motion. "C'mon."

"Where are we going?"

"Downstairs," he said. "You think I'm going to let you just sit up here dissolving into a panicky mess? Come on, stand up."

"Well I guess I can dissolve just as easily in the living room. Aidan!"

In the time it took me to say that, he was already partway down the stairs. Tall, dark in jeans and a navy sweater and sunlight pooling on the cracked tile at the foot of the stairs.

I honestly had no memory of coming up from the basement. I was already in the shower, trembling hands twisting the knobs to hot, hotter, as hot as I could stand the water by the time that bloody haze lifted. Had I passed through that patch of smoldering sunlight?

I must've.

Aidan paused on the lower landing, tilting his head up to find me clinging to the banister with both hands.

"Do you really think we'd go through all that, just that I could watch you burn?"

He held his hand up, letting it pass harmlessly through a trembling curtain of mid-morning sunlight. Inviting me to reach down and take it. Soft, splintered wood crackled as my death-grip on the banister loosened.

Aidan kept his hand where it was, patient, while I made my decision. Pale skin nearly colorless in the light of the sun filtering in through windows I couldn't see from my position. No smoke curling up. No tremor of pain or smell of burning.

A moment of trust.

My gaze slid from that outstretched hand to his face.


End file.
